


Clan

by JayMor



Series: The Angst Chronicles [2]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bad Friend Clary Fray, Fix-It, M/M, POV Raphael Santiago, Pre-Slash, Raphael Santiago Has Feelings, Simon Lewis Needs a Hug, a bit more Clary bashing, because people kept asking for a sequel, but again not too much, so here it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 08:09:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14890790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayMor/pseuds/JayMor
Summary: Raphael has finally gotten Simon home, back to the DuMort, but can he keep him there?





	Clan

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion fic to Fledgling, which I would link here if knew how to do that but I'm challenged.  
> Alternatively, it's the first fic in this series, so you could just get there that way instead. 
> 
> Not necessary to read first, but there's a few things that will probably make more sense if you do.

In the course of eighty years of immortality Raphael had made many mistakes. He had gutted humans who did not deserve death. He had followed blood-crazed generals. He had done what he felt necessary to survive, and survive he had.

Through the Great War. The Depression. The second Great War. Through hunger and cold and homelessness. Through Camille. Raphael had survived.

His mistakes, while unfortunate, became forgivable because he survived. Raphael had been content with that, but now he was a leader. Suddenly his decisions carried so much more weight, as did his mistakes, because now Raphael’s decisions controlled more than his survival. He was responsible for his _clan._ The New York Clan. One of the largest clans to exist. A clan with standing, with influence, that could pressure the Clave. A clan with responsibility to protect the Downworld, not just itself, and Raphael was the head of it all.

His mistakes held weight because now they cost the lives of people who were not Raphael, and the fledgling—no, Simon—that was a mistake for which Raphael could not be forgiven.

Raphael was no fool. He’d lived too long to blind himself to the disloyalty of the New York clan. Immortality bred apathy in the most passionate over time, and there were those in the DuMort much older than Raphael, those who had seen the conquering of the Americas and the destruction of Rome, who no longer cared when a leader rose or fell. They were loyal to the DuMort, to the clan and the security that it symbolized, but they were not loyal to its leader. They were loyal to its laws.

Even Camille had understood. The laws of the Clave held no weight, not when the Nephilim died so quickly, lived so short. The vampires obeyed out of convenience and a desire to avoid unnecessary war, but ultimately the laws of the Clave could be broken and their punishment outlived.

Vampire law—that could not be broken. Unlike the Clave, vampires lived long and their laws were rooted in tradition—in honor and survival. They did not forbid killing. They did not forbid war. They did not forbid everything the Clave forbid.

They forbid treason.

There was little in the world of immortality that could be kept safe, but trust—trust among those who lived forever was sacred. There was no greater crime than betraying the trust of a clan. The betrayal of a clan must be punished. The law demanded it, and the vampires of DuMort demanded the law.

So Simon released Camille and Raphael exiled Simon.

The lines crossed were blurry—the New York clan was hardly Simon’s clan, and criminal or not Camille was Simon’s sire—but Simon lived in the DuMort and generally followed Raphael’s orders and to anyone on the outside looking in Simon was a member of the clan. And so Raphael followed the law.

It was a mistake. That much became obvious when Raphael received a phone call from Magnus, the warlock frantic and rambling about a werewolf attack and animal blood and Simon missing and _Dios_ Simon was _missing_ because he had just _left_ even when he was so malnourished he was healing at a _human_ rate and had only had a single glass of blood before he _stopped_ drinking which was more control than even _Dracula_ had had back when Magnus had known him and really Magnus was calling because he couldn’t track Simon and Luke couldn’t smell him and he was scared that Simon would die and he needed to know had Raphael heard anything from Simon _at all_?

It had barely been two weeks since Raphael made the kill order.

Lily was the one who approached Raphael that night, who quietly assured Raphael that he could—that he _should_ —rescind the kill order. That Simon should be brought home—because that’s what the DuMort was supposed to be. It was Lily who reminded Raphael that he would not be breaking the law to absolve Simon—that it was as much a betrayal to abandon a new vampire as it was to free a criminal and that Camille could always be caught again but that Simon could never be saved if he fell into the madness of a clanless fledgling. It was Lily who told Raphael that the clan missed Simon and his mindless chatter and his enthusiasm that came from being freshly dead instead of hundreds of years old that so many of them had forgotten they’d lost.

It was Lily who told Raphael in no uncertain terms that _he_ needed Simon, and that he needed to bring Simon _back._

Which brought Raphael to where he stood now, in his bedroom, suit jacket smelling unpleasantly of sewage and bed occupied by the one person Raphael had been unable to put out of his mind for the past seventeen days.

Simon looked awful. Pale—sallow in a way that was unnatural even for a vampire—with his eyes sunken deep into their sockets and skin loose on a frame of bones. White bandages covered his forearms, red splotches seeping through where the worst of Simon’s wounds had been, the dressing foreign and unfamiliar on a body that Raphael knew should have healed in seconds—could have healed in seconds had Simon been feeding.

But he hadn’t. Which was concerning.

Simon had been drinking animal blood. It was useless to vampires, like eating Styrofoam—good for filling the stomach and very little else with often lasting effects. It wasn’t quite like a drug, but after a while the body forgot how process human blood. That, mixed with severe malnutrition, often led to insanity, and more often than not the vampire would die.

Honestly, that was what terrified Raphael. That it was a miracle Simon was still alive, a miracle that he hadn’t gone rogue, a miracle that he hadn’t attacked a mundane. Simon should have been crazy with thirst; the near constant presence of his fangs was testament to that. He should have wasted away, died when the werewolf had attacked him, died when he ran away from people who only wanted to help him heal, died when he ran away from himself, died when he turned to Clary, when he refused to be a vampire.

Raphael snarled despite himself at the thought of the shadowhunter.

The Nephilim—save Alec—received very little respect from the Downworld. But Clary, Clary was special. More than the rest of the Nephilim, Clary was detested among the creatures of the night and of magic and demon blood and nature.

The dogma of the Clave, while hated, was obvious and pervasive in the way that it poisoned the minds of Nephilim even while they were still young, taking the world and perverting it until all the shadowhunters saw was blood—demons and angels forever at odds. But Clary was different. Clary had been raised outside the Clave, outside the brainwashing and engrained hatred. Where she should have seen the bigotry and questioned it, Clary adopted it. And where injustice remained, instead of correcting it, Clary furthered the divide.

The rest of the Nephilim could be forgiven for the way they were raised—Alec himself had proved that a shadowhunter could change their thinking—but Clary had no excuse.

A pained moan had Raphael drawing closer to the bed, eyes trained on the fledgling there. Simon was moving, finally. Raphael had half a mind to call Magnus, to back out completely and let the warlock take care of Simon instead. He didn’t now how Simon would respond to waking up in the DuMort with the leader of the New York clan hovering over him, but Raphael doubted it would be good. The fledgling’s words kept echoing in Raphael’s mind.

Simon had thought Raphael was there to _kill_ him.

Because of the kill order.

Because Raphael had called him a traitor.

_Dios._

How had he fucked up that badly? So badly that Simon would rather drive himself mad, hungry and alone, then return to the DuMort? Could he possibly call himself a leader if he let his fledgling die?

There was another moan. The fledgling began to shift, struggling to sit. Raphael froze in place, chest unmoving, as hazy brown eyes found his, expression twisting from one of confusion, to one of recognition, to one of abject fear.

In a flash Raphael was at Simon’s side, hands on his shoulders, trying desperately to calm him as he whispered breathless condolences at the hyperventilating fledgling. But Simon wouldn’t calm. If anything he struggled more, pupils blown wide and fangs all but shredding whatever they came in contact with. In panic Raphael called Lily into the room, ordering her to restrain the fledgling as he slipped from the room phone in hand.

The call picked up after two rings.

“Hello, Magnus Bane speaking.”

 

 

Over the next few nights it became glaringly obvious that finding Simon and bringing him home had been the easy part.

It was like Simon wasn’t Simon anymore. He never spoke unless it was to apologize and walked through the halls in oversized sweaters and tattered sweatpants, feet the softest patter on the floor. He seemed to prefer solitude, something Raphael attributed to the way Simon cowered in fear, trembling with his neck exposed every time a clan member entered the room, almost as if he expected to be killed.

Simon’s words from the sewer echoed in Raphael’s mind.

_Are you here to kill me?_

_Dios fledgling. Why would you think that?_

_The kill order. Because I’m a traitor._

 

 

Four nights later, Raphael is strangely unsurprised to find Simon running away, things stuffed haphazardly into an extra hoodie he’d sewn together at the bottom and tied around his neck like a bad cape. He has packed no blood to take with him and dawn is only an hour away.

“What are you doing Simon?” Raphael realizes that he is weary. That he wants to protect a fledgling that refuses to be protected, and that it is hard. Simon startles.

His hoodie-cape drops to the floor with a thud, a ratty pair of socks rolling out and up to Raphael’s feet. Raphael bends down to pick them up and notices that they are his, and that they have not been washed in a very long time. Simon snatched them back and stuffs them in one of his pockets.

“I’m uh-just-um. Well uh-I was just going to—”

“Leave?” Raphael knows he should be kinder, that he should measure his words and weigh their damage before slinging them out but he can’t. He is more tired than he realized and is starting to understand that his desire to protect Simon runs deeper than his regrets, deeper than responsibility.

Simon looks cowed, nodding his head minutely. Raphael bends down to pick up the hoodie-cape, carefully ensuring that everything is still inside. He offers it to Simon, who carefully takes it from his hands.

“I will not stop you if you this is what you really want,” Raphael says, ignoring the way that Simon’s expression slackens into disbelief. “But first come with me. You have forgotten to pack some things.”

He takes Simon to the basement where the refrigerators are, opening one that he knows holds A positive, Simon’s preferred type. He retrieves three bags. “This should hold you for a few days.” He presses the bags against Simon’s chest, waiting for the fledgling to take them. When a trembling hand lifts to put them in the hoodie, Raphael lets go, turning to close the refrigerator door. “You need to eat,” Raphael continues, “not the animal blood from before, but human blood. Your body can’t process animal blood. You’ll end up back where you were when we found you if you don’t stop. There’s a blood bank near Luke’s—I know he offered to let you stay in the boathouse—that is contracted with the clan. Mention the DuMort and you’ll be able to get blood there. Understand?”

Raphael nails Simon with a harsh glare, his leader stare, the one he uses in Clave councils and Downworld war rooms. Simon folds into himself, right hand scratching at his arm.

“I-Raphael, I can’t.”

“Can’t?” Raphael asks, tone sharp, “Or wont? Because if you don’t drink then you die. So tell me fledgling, why do you want to die?”

Simon whimpers, whatever denial he’d been preparing dying in his throat. Raphael wants to feel proud but he can’t, not when his fledgling—when Simon—is standing in front of him lies on his tongue to defend a suicide mission. Raphael steps closer, into Simon’s space, so close he’s looking up at Simon in a way that shouldn’t have been as terrifying as Raphael knew it was.

“You should have killed me,” Simon mumbles, so soft that Raphael barely catches it despite his enhanced hearing.

“What?” The word falls heavy from his mouth, more demand than question.

“You should have killed me,” Simon repeats, louder this time. His voice steadies and he raises his head, finally looking Raphael in the eye. “You should have killed me,” he repeats again. “You should have killed me Raphael. It’s the law.”

Briefly Raphael relives that horrible sewer conversation, wondering how he managed to miss the signs, how he neglected to put together the pieces, how he didn’t realize that it wasn’t the clan’s opinions he needed to change, but instead Simon’s own beliefs about _himself_.

“I’m a traitor,” Simon continues, “I betrayed you. I betrayed the clan. For _Clary_.” He spits the name like it’s poison, nose crinkling in disgust. “I released Camille, who is probably as evil as _Valentine_ , just so much older and so much better at hiding it, just so that I could get a stupid spell book so that Clary could maybe wake up her mom. We didn’t even know if it would work!” Simon is flailing now, using his hands and arms in grand gestures, working himself up to a climax that Raphael is beginning to fear. “I threw everything away, everything that could maybe barely make this whole vampire thing suck less, for a _shadowhunter_ who can’t even look at me because I need human blood to survive.” Simon scoffed, fingers scratching angrily at his arm. Raphael wondered if he even noticed the red beginning to pool in the scratches. “I’m a monster,” Simon finishes, “I’m a monster, Raphael, and a traitor, and I shouldn’t be alive.”

Oh.

_Oh,_

“Simon.” The name slips from Raphael’s lips like a prayer. “ _Dios_ , Simon. No.”

Raphael reaches forward, ignoring Simon’s flinch when he takes the fledgling’s hand. He thinks his eyes are wet, likely tinged red from tears Raphael hoped would not spill over.

“Simon,” Raphael says, staring into the other vampire’s eyes, “You are mine.” He notices Simon shiver at his words, mentally logging the reaction and storing it away to think on a different time. “You are a member of this clan,” Raphael continues, “and you are a fledgling. You _can_ make mistakes. You will. You _have_. Camille?” Raphael smiles, wry and small but still a smile, “That was a mistake but not a betrayal, and I should not have exiled you. I was angry,” Raphael explains, “and blinded by that anger. Camille has hurt many of us and deserves her sentence, but she is also your sire, and it has not been long enough that she doesn’t still hold power over you. I forgot that. Clary,” Raphael continues on, “is one of your only ties to your old life. It is human to want to help her, and that is good. You were human first, Simon. Sometimes, we forget that. I cannot fault you for being human."

"I understand that you are uncomfortable here, and as much as I want you to stay, I will not force you. But fledgling—Simon— _please_. You will always have a home here at the DuMort.” Raphael lets out an unsteady breath, uncomfortably aware of Simon’s blank expression. He waits a few seconds before letting go of Simon’s hand, pain settling in his chest as he realizes that despite his efforts, he may still lose the fledgling.

“You—you want me to _stay_?”

It’s barely more than a whisper, a desperate plea.

Raphael cup’s Simon’s face in his hands. “ _Yes_ ,” he says. “ _Yes_ , Simon. I do.”

Simon lets his hoodie drop back to the floor, bags of blood falling with it.

“Okay,” he replies, voice small. “Okay.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the companion fic/sequel everyone kept asking for.  
> Hope it fits the bill!
> 
> Again, come talk to me. I'm friendly! (and if you bug me enough I might even write more).


End file.
